


Like A Witch Scorned

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Murder, Pendle Witches, Revenge, Sexual Content, Soulmates, Witch Trials, death by hanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: When she was a young girl, Alice Malkin’s mother told stories of her ancestors - the Pendle Witches - and how they met their demise at the hands of Magistrate Nowell. Alice lives her life with two missions: entertain well-dressed aristocrats and end the Nowell line. That is, until Florean Fortescue, a descendent of Nowell, walks into her life and into her heart. A series of vignettes that tell the tale of love, heartbreak, murder, and the harrowing story of soulmates who are not meant to be.WINNER: The One That Never Leaves YouRUNNER UP: Best Written





	Like A Witch Scorned

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sing-Me-A-Rare B-Side. Much love to my beta, Pronunciation_Hermy_One!! Song Prompt - Criminal, Fiona Apple.

_And I need to be redeemed_  
_To the one I’ve sinned against_  
_Because he’s all I ever knew of love_

**Gallows Hill, Lancaster - 20 August 1612**

Bright. It’s not the type of weather she’d couple with the most gruesome of days. Overcast, at least. Thunder, inevitable. But not sunny and certainly not with the light, floral breeze that wafted among the gallows. Her black booted foot was flat against the rotting wood frame as a tall, brick house of a man wound a thick noose around her neck and moved down the line to the next accused witch. 

Nowell stood opposite of her wearing a smug sort of smile as his hand twitched around a thin scroll of parchment. Surely, her death sentence. He bounced on the heels of his expensive shoes and watched with, what she believed was, delight as noose after noose was placed around their necks.

Toerag, he was. Slimy and smelly and good for nothing. His chipper, gravelly voice called out to the crowd though his eyes, small and filled with malice, fixed on hers.

“On the Lord’s Day, 20 August sixteen hundred twelve, His Royal Highness, King James the first of his name, provides his blessing that the witches known as Pendle hang until death.”

“Horse shit!” One of the others yelled and then spit at Nowell’s feet. 

The crowd hissed, and shouted back at her for daring to treat a member of the judiciary in such a manner. Even she rolled her eyes; fighting against it was no use. When Robert Nowell was brought to Pendle to find witches, they never stood a chance. She’d told them as much during their covenant at Malkin Tower.

The same night, it turns out, that Nowell found all the evidence he needed of their sorcery.

Nowell cleared his throat and glanced down at his parchment. “At the stroke of eleven, we shall pull the lever and pray for your wretched souls until you are sent for judgment. May God have mercy on your souls.”

He pulled from his waistcoat a golden pocket watch. Nowell watched it, offering her a glance every few seconds, before he nodded at the figure behind her.

The creaking wood happened first. And then like bags of flour being hoisted and then dropped suddenly, the bodies of her coven fell through holes underneath their feet. She heard three cracks, several gasps, and then the screaming started.

They all screamed and she wondered if they could hear her, too. Her throat was raw. Her face was wet. With her hands tied behind her back, she sobbed and ignored the snot dripping down her face. Salty tears fell onto her tongue as she shouted for her family.

She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t in pain. She was still standing on the rotting wood at her feet. She was taller than the others as they swung and swiveled around, gasping for breath.

The crowd went wild as each body, one by one, went limp. But she was still alive. She was still taut and not slack or twitching with the last fight of life.

Merlin, she was still breathing, though quickened and ragged. 

She lived.

And she hated them all for it.

“Alice Grey!” Nowell shouted over the crowd, whose chanting died away at the sound of his voice. “You are found innocent of all charges, and you are free to go.”

The rope was removed from both her hands and her neck. The crowd cheered on her behalf. Nowell’s smirk deepened as he read her disbelieving thoughts. She stood still, she couldn’t move.

How did she survive? Why was she chosen, of all of her coven, to live. 

“You’re free to return home, Miss Grey,” Nowell informed her cruelly. “The additional tax for all our trouble will be collected Friday next. I suggest you scurry before the crowd has a change of heart.”

So, she ran. Skirt hiked up around her knees, Alice ran through the muck of the field and didn’t look back until she arrived at Malkin Tower. She dropped to the ground and placed her hands over her mouth and she sobbed. She sobbed until her broken heart turned to hatred, until her soul was black with spite.

Robert Nowell would suffer. Perhaps not in this life, but most certainly through the rest. She’d pass the story down the generations. She’d curse them to boils and disfiguration and plague.

Alice dragged her body into the tower and crawled up the stone stairs. She pulled herself up by the rim of her cauldron and stared at its innocuous contents.

She searched her stores for ingredients and threw them into the boiling potion. It bubbled blood red by the time she was done, and she smiled as the red hue shined on her face. Her smile was wide that clear, summer night.

She’d ruin his lineage for generations. Blood malediction until the Nowell line was extinct.

Until then, they would suffer.

 

**Malkin Tower, Forest of Pendle - 1 August 1936**

“Yes, mummy,” young Alice Malkin whines as her hands clench around a piece of parchment. “And there hasn’t been a Nowell in England for a century, mummy, I know.”

Mummy Malkin has told the story of their ancestral blood since she was born. Alice knows her namesake almost as well as she knows herself. But she doesn’t understand why it matters now since all of the Nowells are dead. Mummy insists on retelling the tale, however, should Alice ever encounter one. They are bound by blood to vengeance.

A twelve year old, born to two moderately successful entrepreneurs, being told to seek revenge for what’s happened centuries ago - it makes Alice roll her eyes nightly. 

“You mustn’t forget, little dove, that your loyalty is to the Grey line. We may be Malkins, love, but we are borne of Alice Grey’s line. Even your papa cannot understand the responsibilities we carry.”

“Mummy,” Alice tries to sound sweet, to sound understanding, to sound like she cares at least a little bit. She waves her letter in the air and bats her eyes. “Mummy, I have my letter to go to Hogwarts.”

Mummy smiles and places her hands on her plump hips. Ancestry forgotten. “Of course you do, dove. You’ll be a very powerful little witch one day.”

Alice beams. “I’m going to be a Gryffindor.”

“Your blood won’t allow it,” her mother reminds her for the hundredth time in her life. “You’re bound for Slytherin, as we’ve been since the school’s opening.”

“I don’t much like snakes.” Alice shivers and shakes her head. “I want to be brave like a lion.” 

Mummy laughs as Alice roars. She doesn’t tell her again that she’ll be a Slytherin, but the words still resonate with the little girl. Mummy’s voice spoke to her at all hours, reminding her why she’d require the traits of Salazar Slytherin in her life. As much as she wants to be a lion, something at the very core of Alice _knows_ for certain that she’ll be sorted into Slytherin.

Just in case.

Always just in case.

 

**Hogwarts, Scotland - 1 June 1943**

It’s a somber train ride home from school for every compartment except for the one she sits in with her fellow Slytherin graduates. A large boy with a funny affinity for beasts was arrested just before NEWTs began. Hagrid was responsible for the murder of a muggleborn and Tom Riddle discovered his secret just in time. It didn’t have an effect on Alice, of course. She’s top of her class with Outstandings in all but Potions. Potions doesn’t really matter to her, though; everyone knows that Slughorn favors Riddle and his penchant for subtler magics.

Alice is happy to be leaving the school and finally venturing out on her own. She doesn’t really need her NEWTs, either, because unlike half her classmates she doesn’t intend to find employ with the Ministry. Her heart lies with events, with fashion, with the socialites she bonded with in Slytherin. Her father’s galleons will buy her a storefront and Alice intends on making a name in Diagon Alley as a seamstress or an event planner. She’ll figure out the finer details later. She still has travel to do and parties to attend. 

Being an adult will wait a few more years. 

She’s crowded into a compartment with her friends, idly chatting away about everything that’s happened this year. Halfway through the ride is when she feels it. A tug. A pull. A warmth, right at her heart. It’s like something that’s always been missing has suddenly come into existence and found her. It completes her so perfectly that for a moment she wonders if she slipped off into the afterlife without realizing it.

That is, until Aderyn Avery’s hand wraps around hers. Alice’s face flushes and the boy smirks at her as if he caused the sudden temperature spike. No, she’s aware that it’s not Avery’s touch. He was fine enough as a friend and lover, and even after he joined Riddle’s group of friends and became desirable, he still didn’t invoke any true deeper feelings in her. She uses him as means to an end, nothing more.

Alice pulls her hand away and places her palm over the Slytherin patch on her robes, just above her heart. It’s racing and it’s full and there’s _something_ that feels akin to home that she’s never felt before.  

Aderyn slips his hand onto her knee but she barely registers his touch. “Black, have you sorted out the manor for our graduation do?”

The long-haired, thin faced boy grinned and nodded. “Mother was agreeable. Malkin’s been planning for weeks, haven’t you, love?”

Aderyn squeezed her knee and Alice jumped, entirely engrossed in the bizarre behavior of her heart. “Yes, yes. It’s all settled. I’ve owled all of the Twenty Eight and most Slytherin alumnus.”

“Excellent,” Aderyn says as his lips find her ear and whisper only for her, “we’ll have a room to ourselves at the end of the night?”

She suddenly feels cold. Wrong. _Off._

“No,” she tells him as she removes his hand from her knee and his face from her neck. “We’re done here.”

“But-”

“I don’t love you, Avery.” The words are curt, cold, detached. “I never could.”

The compartment is quiet, except for the erratic thump, thump, thump of her heart. She doesn’t have time for this almost-love or its many complications. Mummy made sure to drill that into her head before she died. Love is for fools who aren’t afforded the responsibilities of the Grey heritage.

Avery is not of the proper lineage for their cause; he isn’t aristocratic or artsy. He’s a laborer, a future employee of the Ministry. She cannot marry a government man. Mummy would roll in her grave.

‘ _You’re too good for the scourge of the government, poppet_ .’ Mummy’s voice reminds her. ‘ _They’ll chew you up and spit you out_.’ 

“Yes, mummy,” Alice whispers into the window as she watches the Scotland hills pass by with lightning speed. Aderyn doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. Something else has begun, something that feels like a string around her heart, tethering her to the world.

 

**Diagon Alley, London - 1 June 1975**

Madam Malkin enjoys fashion. In fact, it comes second only to hosting events. No one will argue that, among the shopkeepers in Diagon Alley, the Madam is a top notch hostess and frequently appeals to her peers by way of champagne and classy, thematic festivities. It’s in her blood, aristocracy. Chin up, shoulders back, even her tinkering laugh is precise and her smile is perfectly poised.

It’s no wonder, then, that Florean ventures to her shop one afternoon to request her services in throwing a Grand Opening Celebration in honor of Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor. The other shop owners simply rave about her ability to create memorable events and, given that he is new to London, Florean craves the support of his fellow entrepreneurs.

He’s boyish, with coiffed brown hair and sparkling eyes that she believes is a confirmation of his youth. Certainly, someone so full of life and endlessly hopeful must be young. Never hazed by the tragedy of life. And yet, there is something distinctly traditional about his state of dress, like old times and past lives as if he’s lived the same fifty years that she’s been prisoner to. She’s immediately drawn to his contradiction. Something inside of her thrums happily at his presence.

“Madam.” He tips his chin at her and casually leans against the counter with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Fortescue?” She asks him, though there’s no reason. The entire alley is buzzing about his arrival and what his business might do to breathe life into the old high street.

“The very same,” he smiles and crosses his feet at the ankle. “I’m told you’re highly skilled in the art of ceremony and parties.”

She allows a small, knowing smile. “I have been known to throw a gala or two.”

When their eyes meet, she’s doomed and she feels it instantly seize her heart, butterflies rampantly fluttering along every nerve of her body. He’s someone to her now, though she’s not sure who. And she’s not sure she likes it, either. Fifty years she’s been perfectly fine on her own, one sole mission in mind and never, not once, did she need any sort of man in her life. Thirty two years ago, she told a boy she’d been close to that she couldn’t love him. That was the last time she almost felt love, but now… now, this boyish newcomer makes her heart pound like she’s a teenager in love.

But upon first sight, he’s something and he very well might be everything. And it’s terrifying.

His smile grows the longer they stare at one another and it’s he who breaks the long silence.

“Shall we discuss this more over tea?” He holds his elbow out to her, cheeky in his assumption that she’ll say yes. And while everything in her screams ‘no’, a very soft, almost unspoken “yes” falls from her lips.

Later that evening, she learns that he’s a history buff; that he believes in ridiculous children’s’ tales like _Babbity Rabbity and the Hopping Pot_ and _The Tale of the Three Brothers._ He makes her laugh as he talks about the symbol of the fallen Grindelwald army, and promises her that there is a wand hidden somewhere in the wizarding world that is powerful enough to stop even the most powerful wizards, like Grindelwald or Dumbledore. Florean speculates that Albus Dumbledore carries the wand now, but Alice simply laughs and explains that an old, twinkle-eyed coot could not ever harness such a power – even if she does think it’s codswollop.

He returns her home late in the evening and stands beneath the archway of her shop. The moonlight overhead casts a pale light on his back and a shadow across her face. Florean leans in and presses his lips against hers. It’s gentle but something inside of Alice roars to life and it’s her that grips him around the neck, fingers curling into his hair, and pulls him in closer and harder.

Oh, the things mummy would say about what she did that night. For the first time in ages, she couldn’t hear a word of caution in her head from mummy. Silenced, it was, because finally, after a lifetime, she’s found something worth keeping.

 

**Diagon Alley, London - 20 August 1975**

Their fingers are knotted together on top of his chest. She’s contented, breathing deeply against the soft skin of his shoulder. His free hand caresses her hair down to the side of her face as he smiles serenely at her. Alice has never known a love like this before. Sure, some of her closest acquaintances profess their love of her – the very best of friends or the most sensual of lovers, but this… it is different. He’s meant for her and she is meant for him.

Like pieces of a puzzle, they fit perfectly together.

And he shows her over and over just how precise their curves and edges are for one another. Florean presses into her and she keens into him and the stars align as she shouts his name at the top of her climax.

But he doesn’t let her down from it, oh no. He rides it out with her and then starts again before she can cool off. She’s always running hot around him and he’s always pushing her for more. He’ll be the death of her, probably.

Alice nuzzles his neck and whispers in his ear, “Ready for round three?”

He chuckles, a deep rumbling in his chest, as he moves their joined hands down to his arousal and shows her just how ready he really is. “I’ll say, you might be the death of me, Madam.”

It’s her turn to laugh as she grips him tight and nibbles on the soft flesh just below his ear. He only allows her to stroke him once, twice, three times, before he removes her hand and crawls on top of her. Florean’s brilliant smile hovers above her as he sheaths himself inside of her again and she calls out his name as she’s done for months – breathy and filled with pleasure she’s never known from any other.

He’s whispering the most beautiful words into her ear while as he claims her over and over again. She’s putty, practically in tears, as her climax approaches yet again. This time, for the first time, they come together with the most satisfied of moans.

“I love you,” he whispers and peppers her shoulder with kisses. “I love you so much, and I swear to Merlin himself that I’m going to marry you one day.”

The stupid grin that takes up her entire face is hidden in the hand she’s pressed over her mouth as she tries to catch her breath. Yes, she quite likes the sound of Madam Malkin-Fortescue.

“I love you, too,” she tells him quietly.

They go another two rounds that night, thanks to a clever little potion she’d gotten from a friend of friend.

 

**Diagon Alley, London - 20 August 1976**

There is a racket being made through the Alley, even worse than when the families arrive in droves to prepare for Hogwarts. Alice steps outside of her shop onto the cobbled path of the alley and spots Florean immediately. His dashing smile and youthful bounce directing the charm work that is being used to place a brand new sign above his shop. He looks at ease, giving direction to others as they work for him.

She likes that about him. He’s comfortable taking ownership, of dominating the room when necessary. Oh, heavens, could he dominate a room.

Her eyes wander over his body, still fit from his days of quidditch, and chews on her bottom lip. Florean’s gaze meets hers and he winks before pointing excitedly above him at the sign overhead.

She glances up and her stomach drops.

That crest, she’s seen it before.

A goblet shaped seal on whose crown rested the helmet of a knight. Nowell’s crest. On Florean’s signage.

She runs forward, lifting her flowing skirt off the dingy ground and practically plows through the wizard charming the sign above the shop. She’s in Florean’s face and her heart is pounding and she feels so sick to her stomach, because _how?!_

There’s no way, she thinks, that Florean can be descended from the Nowell line. Surely the universe isn’t so cruel? Her fingers curl into his thin shirt and she nearly falls into him.

“What’s this, Florean?” She asks in a breathy rush. “What is the meaning of that crest?”

She wants him to tell her that he found it somewhere. That it holds no meaning. But the way his smile climbs his cheeks, proud and regal somehow; Alice knows that her world is about to come crashing down.

Her heart hammers as his lips part. Fuzz blocks her hearing and every word he says is muffled and buzzing.

“Oh, do you like it?” He grasps her hand and places a searing kiss to the inside of her wrist. His hold on her is the only thing that keeps him standing. “It’s-”

“Florean, please,” she begs him softly, the plea dripping from her lips so desperately she practically feels her soul crumble before him.

“My family crest,” he continues as if he didn’t hear her. “On my mother’s side. Interesting story, that.”

 _Oh, but Merlin is testing me. The fates are playing a cruel joke. This cannot be_.

She’s pale and shaking and positively wrecked.

 _Please, no. Gods,_ please _, no._

“One of my ancestors was a squib called Robert Nowell.” Florean curls their hands together and swings them back and forth. “He was so angry about the magical gene - you know, our special _thing_ that makes us magic - that he crusaded with King James the First to eradicate witches from England.”

“No.” She screams the word and tears her hand from his. Alice knows she looks insane, eyes wide and body quaking, but she doesn’t care. It’s a sick, cruel, twisted joke. “This isn’t _fucking funny_ , Florean!”

He stares at her, his big, blue eyes watching as if he’d never quite seen her before. “My love…” 

Florean reaches for her, as a person might approach a frightened animal. She shrinks away. How can she allow his touch when she knows who he is?

_Oh, but he is the reason for my heartbeat. He is home._

“Alice,” he whispers, daring another step forward. “You’re creating a scene, darling. Why don’t we chat over tea?”

“I can’t…” she squeezes her eyes shut as Mummy’s voice enters her thoughts.

‘ _They’re filthy. They’re hateful. They’ll chew you up and spit you out, little love._ ’

But Florean is none of those things, she thinks. He is gentle and kind and brave. He’s a Gryffindor through and through and nothing like Mummy described the Nowells to be.

‘ _They’ve murdered our family. Tortured our souls. They’ve laughed in our faces while we hung from the gallows._ ’

Not Florean. She pleads, not Florean.

‘ _To show them mercy is to allow them victory. Over us, over all witches.’_

He’d never hurt her. He’s perfect. They’re meant to be.

She’s kneeling on the ground in front of his shop. Her head is on the stone and her hands are wrapped in her dark hair. She’s dying inside as she fights against everything she’s ever known. And Florean is trying to help, to soothe her, but every time he touches her, Alice cries and shoves him away.

‘ _His blood is tainted, my dove. He’s cursed, as would your children be.’_

Alice sobs. 

_‘They’re murderers, the lot of them. He’s no different.’_

The thudding of her heart since the day he was born tells her otherwise. He’s none of those things, not Florean. He loves her and she loves him and she can’t… can’t possibly…

‘ _You have a responsibility to your bloodline, Alice Malkin. To your namesake. You must.’_

“Florean.” His name is but a breath through her trembling lips.

He’s next to her, arms wound around her as he heaves her from the ground.

‘ _It’s your duty to them all. You must.’_

“Florean, please.”

He’s holding her weight and leading her slowly to the flat above her shop. He whispers words of affection and gentle affirmations that promise that she’s okay. When she shakes her head, he kisses her temple and places her onto her small sofa. He’s holding her hand and his worried face fills her vision when she finally catches his eyes. 

‘ _You must end the line. My dove, you must kill him.’_

He’s kneeling in front of her in his favorite blue suit. His hand cups her cheek and she nuzzles into it, smelling the sweetness of ice cream on his palm. She cannot, she will not, be able to fulfill her promise to her ancestors. Not Florean. Not ever.

“I can’t,” she whispers out loud and glances down at the short space that separates them. “I love you.”

“What’s happened, Alice?” He tilts her chin up and forces her to meet his gaze once again. “What spooked you?”

“A ghost,” she lies, as it’s the closest she can come to the truth. “I thought I saw a ghost.”

“Goodness, my love,” he laughs as he presses his forehead to hers. “However did you make it through Hogwarts if you’re so frightened by the undead?”

Hours later, he has her on the sofa and fucks the memories of her youth away. She screams out her release and promises him as she strokes his sweaty hair that she’ll never harm him.

His response is a gentle snore and she sighs, allowing herself to fall asleep with his weight on top of her.

 

**Diagon Alley, London - 20 August 1977**

“The Dark Lord?” Florean reads over her shoulder as she sips a cup of tea. “Isn’t that-”

“We mustn’t speak of it,” Alice reminds him quietly. She sets her teacup down and smiles as he presses light kisses to the side of her neck. “It’s nothing to do with us, and from what Lestrange says, he’s seeking political movement within Hogwarts.”

“Sounds Slytherin,” Florean chuckles and pulls out the seat next to her. “You’ve heard the rumor about who he’s after, then?”

She nods. Who hasn’t? But, she has nothing to fear. Alice can trace her lineage back… no, she tries not to think about that anymore. She’s made her choice. Love over blood. Despite Mummy’s constant words in the back of her mind reminder her how stupid her choice is.

“I think we should leave.”

Her paper hits the table as her eyes narrow. “Leave?” 

“Come on, Alice,” he croons as he leans in with his dashing, manipulative smile. “I know the wedding is only a few months away, but we can elope now instead. Take an extended honeymoon in Spain.”

She sighs and pats his hand. “We don’t need to run away from this, Florean. He’s not out to get us.”

“Not you,” he amends with raised brows. “Mustn’t forget that I descend from-”

“Yes, yes, darling, I know.” Merlin, does she. She can feel Mummy’s memory flaring up to remind her just who Florean is descended from. She swallows it down, buries it deep. “But I very much doubt The Dark Lord is going back centuries to discover muggleborns. He’d only have a handful of followers left.”

“It’s not safe in England anymore, Alice.” Florean ducks his head and places a hand over hers. “I’m leaving.”

She stiffens and furrows her eyebrows. “What, with or without me?”

“If I must. If you refuse-”

“But, the wedding-”

“Can be had anywhere, my love!” It’s not the sweet tone he’s used for years. This is almost fearful anger directed at her.

Alice recoils from him and swallows over a thick knot in her throat. Despite the ache she feels down to her very soul, she shuts down and makes her face blank. Careless. Void of the pain she feels on the inside.

“Do what you must, then.” 

“When things die down, I’ll come back,” he promises her. “I swear it.”

He sounds like he means it. He’s very earnest. But, she doesn’t believe him. He’s a coward, she thinks.

‘ _Same as the rest of his bloodline, my dove.’_

 

 _I’ve been a bad, bad girl_  
_I’ve been careless with a delicate man_  
_And it’s a sad, sad world_  
_When a girl will break a boy  
_ _Just because she can._

**Diagon Alley, London - 31 October 1981**

“Long live Harry Potter!”

Those four words are bellowed from every corner of Diagon Alley as patrons and owners alike rejoice at the news of The Dark Lord’s fall. Madam Malkin is among them, though she’s not cheering for The Boy Who Lived. No, her mind is elsewhere. On him.

Her heart has been empty for years and she’s grown older without him around to keep her young. She’s lost a great deal during The Dark Lord’s reign, far more than she was prepared to lose. Including him.

Oh, he sent letters for a little while. Trinkets from around Spain and Eastern Europe. But soon, the letters shortened and the time between them lengthened. Just this morning she’d read his last letter from just under a year ago.

“They say he’s hunting a boy,” he’d written and she scoffed. Aren’t we all, she wondered ruefully as she crumpled up the meaningless letter and tossed it into the bin.

She stands at the front of her shop, lifting her chin to those who pass by and wish her good fortune tonight. But her eyes deceive her and find the Ice Cream Parlor sign, bright blue Nowell family crest mocking her from a distance.

‘ _They’ll chew you up and spit you out.’_  

Indeed, Mummy has been right all along. Though, when Florean shows his face in the alley once more, Alice truly understands where all of the Grey ire comes from.

He’s not alone. A slight and pretty, young brunette is attached to his arm, wrapped in fur and clinging closely to him. A shiny piece of metal glints off the celebratory fireworks and her eyes zero in on what should have been _her_ wedding ring. Something inside of Alice snaps when his eyes, still bright and youthful as they ever were, meet hers. A frown tugs at his lips but he offers her a small tip of his hat and escorts his female companion into his abandoned shop.

Her vision fades at the edges and there’s a hazy red hue that colors the alley. She’s shaking from head to toe as she reaches for her wand. It’s wrapped in her aging hand as she advances toward the ice cream parlor, a menacing frown pulls her lips and her jaw clenches tight enough to crack molars.  

“Madam!” 

She takes another step forward.

“Take cover!”

She’s glad that they’re afraid of her as she takes long strides towards Florean’s business. Mummy’s voice in her head champions her every move, every thought she has about ending the last dredges of the Nowell line here and now. 

It isn’t until a streaming green light colors the alley that Alice stops in her tracks. Her hand twists on the doorknob and it holds her weight as she half-spins her body around to see who the source of the light is. Surely they aren’t trying to take her down with the killing curse. All of The Dark Lord’s followers are too cowardly to roam the streets without him, aren’t they?

The answer is no, and they’re here in the wide open alley with their cloaks, hoods, and masks. They’re rummaging through shops and finding known blood traitors and apparating them away. She’s torn; running into the ice cream shop to seek shelter or standing her ground as a proud, angry pureblood entrepreneur who doesn’t have time for the post-war surge of violence happening on the main street.

She chooses to stand her ground, because that’s what Mummy always taught her. When she’s approached by a hooded figure in a skeletal mask, she lifts her chin and points him inside.

“The brunette upstairs,” she whispers so that no one around her can hear. “She’s part of the Order of the Phoenix.”

They drag her out and apparate away with her only a few steps away from where Alice is pressed against the dark brick storefront. Florean runs out of the shop, shouting and waving his wand, but it’s no use.

She is gone already.

He turns to her and his eyes are brimmed red with tears and panic. She doesn’t afford him any sort of emotion, just stares back at him blankly.

“Shame,” she tells him evenly. She pushes off of the wall and before making her way back to her own shop, she adds, “she seemed lovely.”

 

**Diagon Alley, London - 1 June 1995**

“They say he returned,” the whispers say on every corner of the high street. “He Who Must Not Be Named is back.” 

“Codswollop,” others say, louder.

She believes the rumors; hell, she’s lived through two dark wizards rising to power. The first, a man whom she secretly admired as he blasted his way across Europe, was dead twice before finally being imprisoned. How the world could think that The Dark Lord wouldn’t return, she couldn’t understand.

So, she bides her time and keeps to herself. Once in a while, she’ll catch Florean outside of his shop talking to his patrons, but she tries not to pay him much attention. Part of her still yearns to be close to him – the tug of her heart likes to remind her occasionally – but part of her is happy to see him suffer for so many years after the devastating loss of his wife. 

He still hasn’t recovered from the night she was ripped from his life. She still hears him calling out her name in the dead of night. But she feels nothing for his loss. Death Eaters.

 _Pft_ , she thinks as she casually sips a cup of tea to the sounds of his wailing. _Death Eaters have nothing on the fury of a witch scorned._  

Florean threatens to leave the shop and Diagon Alley and England and _her._ She can’t very well have that, and so she places a curse upon him to ensure he stays per her command. The Ministry doesn’t question the use of the Unforgivable and the other shopkeepers tend to their own horrors of war. She keeps Florean as a prisoner in his own shop. She won’t let him go. She won’t let him forget what he’s done to her. She’ll torture him every day for the rest of his miserable life by making him live where his wife was stolen and face the woman he abandoned every single day.

But at least she’ll get to spend the rest of her life with him, somehow. The thread around her heart sings and she knows she’s made the right decision.

 

 _Heaven help me for the way I am_  
_Save me from these evil deeds_  
_Before I get them done_  
_I know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand_  
_But I keep livin’ this day  
_ _Like the next will never come_

**Diagon Alley, London - 1 July 1997**

A figure pops into her floo grate, green from the flames but still no less off-putting with the hood and mask. “The Dark Lord has called upon you.”

“I have nothing to offer him,” she says stiffly and gently sets down her bone china cup with a soft clank. She shows no sign of surprise, or even eagerness, for being called upon. “I should think he’s already done enough by stealing away our wandmaker.”

“The Dark Lord has his reasons for taking Ollivander,” the man says to her, gruff and forceful and with a little bit of pride, like he’s trying to prove that he’s one of the chosen few who knows Lord Voldemort’s reasons for doing anything at all.   

All men are the same. It’s all compensation for what’s not so impressive down below. She’s known her fair share of men with that little problem. Of course, an egotistical maniac of a wizard would be exactly the same way – it doesn’t shock her. But, instead of saying so to the Death Eater in her grate, the Madam sticks her nose in the air and gazes at him down the length of her nose.

“And what is his reason for calling upon me, then? Please don’t keep me waiting with such baited breath.”

“He needs information from Fortescue.”

It feels as if a stake made of rock solid ice pierces her heart and her stomach drops. She tries not to let her eyes squeeze shut and it takes all of her strength to keep up the haughty façade she’s maintained thus far during The Dark Lord’s reign. But this, it strikes her out of nowhere and she’s torn between caring for Florean’s safety as a half blood and pleased that perhaps the Nowell line will get its comeuppance without the need for her to kill him herself.

Life is never that fair, of course. 

“And what does he need of the ice cream man?” she asks, refusing to utter his name. 

“There’s a rumor that he knows where to find something the Dark Lord desires.”

She knows better than to ask what he knows. A half blood, descended from famous witch killers, couldn’t possibly be of use to Lord Voldemort and his army of Death Eaters. Even if Florean could give The Dark Lord power beyond –

Her body freezes and her eyes widen the smallest bit, but the Death Eater catches it. His grin is so big that she can see it underneath the mask. “Oh, she’s finally caught up.”

“Surely the stories cannot be true?” Her hand is shaking around the cup of tea she’s gripping. She whispers, more to herself than to the figure in the grate. “I thought he was mad.” 

“The Dark Lord requests his presence,” he dismisses her. “The wards on his parlor are personal and strong. We need your familiarity with the alley.”

“What makes you think I’d just allow you to take another shopkeeper?” Her voice doesn’t quake in quite the same way that her body seems to. Years of practice keeping secrets, she thinks.

“Do you truly believe you have a choice?”

She’s tried to convince herself, over time, that she’s been torturing Florean for the heartache he’s caused her. In this moment, however, she thinks that perhaps his presence has been more of a comfort to her than anything else. The Madam likes to showcase how truly cold she can be, how hard and relentless and independent. But Alice, buried somewhere deep inside, is quietly begging for mercy of the man she’s loved. Alice is louder now, clawing at the icy mask of the Madam as she stands from her small tea table and lowers her wards for the Death Eater to enter her parlor.

He's taller than her but when she beckons him to follow her, he is on her tail like a pup that obeys his master. No wonder they all fall into line behind a dark wizard, she thinks. He watches as she aims her wand through the window and vanishes the charms that Florean has over his shop. She’s known his wards for decades; they’re as simple as the man who placed them and they fall so easily.

Ignoring the sick feeling that’s bubbling up inside of her, she turns to the Death Eater and says, “it’s done. Please don’t leave a mess.” 

He grunts and follows her to the front door. After checking side to side to ensure no one can see him, the masked man steals through the night to the ice cream parlor just down the alley.

She can’t bear to watch. While there’s no proof that any harm will come to Florean, she knows others who have gone missing and never returned. The woman in love with Florean, the one that’s been hidden for so long, is desperate to save him, to spare him from this fate. And as she watches Florean being dragged from the parlor with a thick bag over his head, she turns away and doesn’t allow that love to fester into the desolate sadness she felt deep to her soul.

When the crack of apparation echoes through the shops, she rushes forward and enters into Florean’s parlor on her own. There is a mess, overturned tables and cracked glass display cases. At least he put up a fight, she thinks. She wanders through his shop and remembers all of the days she spent wrapped up in him on various corners and tables and chairs.

From the corner of her eye she catches his shop sign swinging despite no breeze. The Nowell family crest glints against the moonlight and mocks her.

‘ _You’ve done well, my dove,’_ Mummy’s voice reminds her. ‘ _With any luck, we’ll be done with the whole Nowell line.’_  

Anger races through her veins. Ending the Nowell line is everything to her, but she’s fighting back the pieces of her that wish it could turn out differently. The thread that’s been tightened around her heart since 1943 pulses and thrashes and she falls to the ground with her hand on her chest. She’ll die here, she’s sure of it, as heat boils through her veins and a scream rips through her throat.

And then, after what feels like hours of violent pain, it’s gone.

No more heat.

No more pain.

No more Nowells.

No more string.

No more Florean Fortescue.


End file.
